Crucible
by Florentine Quill
Summary: Several years after Kooza, Cyrus endures an unexpected trial by fire. Post Show.
1. Temptation

"My, my, my…I haven't seen such a kite in a long, long time…"

Cyrus's insides froze. He extended a flicker of power, confirming that no one else was around as well as the identity of the entity standing behind him. He inhaled deeply and called his kite back to him, standing up straighter as he felt the comforting weight of canvas and wood settle on his shoulder. He smoothed the leather strap with nervous fingers before turning around. "Hello Athanasius."

The reaper smiled, red eyes glinting as he stepped closer to Cyrus. "Well, well. If it isn't Sarkan's little protégé. Fancy meeting you here." Cyrus huffed quietly, stroking the leather strap of his kite again. "Laugh if you like boy but this time it appears you encroach on _my _territory." Athanasius spread his arms, indicting wide open area they stood in. There was only one difference between this land and the park Cyrus had been in when Sarkan had swept him away and into Kooza: The gravestones and plaques set into the ground.

Cyrus's gaze flickered to a particular gravestone.

Athanasius caught his glance and his smile grew wider and even more menacing. He prowled forward to peer at the inscription carved. "Ah…" he murmured. "A recent loss in the family then, little protégé?"

"Yes," Cyrus bit out, ignoring the vicious ache in his chest. Athanasius crouched down and grasped a handful of the soil, rubbing it between his fingers, humming to himself. Cyrus bristled for a moment before taking a deep breath. This was not Kooza. Athanasius was not a dancing skeleton with rubies for eyes. Sarkan was not here to protect him. "What do you want, reaper?" he asked warily.

"Hmm?" Athanasius stood, brushing his hands free of the grave soil. "Oh, many things," he chuckled, studying the dirt that had made its way underneath his nails. "But nothing that pertains to the current situation." He studied Cyrus, taking in the faded shirt and jeans and tired eyes. "In fact, it is I who should be asking you that." The death god slid closer to Cyrus, towering over the boy, tilting his head back with a gentle finger. "I really must ask Sarkan how he found such a gem," he mused.

Cyrus edged back, resisting the urge to shudder violently. "What do you mean?" he asked, aiming to distract Athanasius from coming any closer.

Athanasius gave him a flat look. "_Think_ boy. Sarkan must've developed your brains while he had you. _What _am I?"

Several answers flashed through Cyrus's mind, none of them complimentary. Azar would have been proud. "A reaper," he replied, being deliberately obtuse.

Athanasius rolled his eyes and sighed. "Very good. Now, as you undoubtedly know from your experiences with Sarkan, I can be persuaded to make deals on occasion." He stood still and stared at Cyrus intently. "Now then," he purred, "are you sure there isn't _anything_ I can do for you?" He cast a significant look at the headstone that bore Cyrus's grandfather's name.

Cyrus's eyes widened and he stopped breathing for a moment. "I-You…You could bring him back?" he whispered. Athanasius nodded, reveling in the mingled hope and anguish visible in Cyrus's expression. Cyrus whimpered softly, eyes darting back and forth between the headstone and Athanasius.

"You could have him back again. You could make sure that nothing ever happened to him again. You have the power…" Athanasius's voice was low and persuasive, though something dark and ugly flitted across his face as he thought of Cyrus's power. The boy was now staring fixedly at the headstone, chewing on his lower lip while his hands clutched at his kite's strap. "He would take care of you…" Athanasius continued, stalking closer to Cyrus. "It's just one little deal…"

"One deal," Cyrus mumbled to himself. "Grandfather…" He drifted forward, bending forward to brush the granite headstone. He had carved the name, date and inscription himself, using his powers. The script, like the rock and the man beneath it, was rough but steadfast.

Behind him Athanasius hovered, his expression one of an unholy glee. If he could manage to bind the whelp in the same manner as he had bound Sarkan…Oh, he shivered at the thought of Sarkan's face. To tarnish or harm the boy was to tarnish or harm the reclusive god, something Athanasius reveled in doing. Still, he had to close this deal.

"One deal little one," he whispered into Cyrus's ear, fingers sliding over grief rounded shoulders.

Cyrus's head twitched to one side and glazed eyes focused on Athanasius. "But you're a reaper, you want something. You always want something…"

Athanasius nodded. He had to be careful or risk the boy running. "Very true…What can you offer me in return for your grandfather's life?" He waited a beat before continuing. "Your kite? No…I don't care for mundane trifles, even if they are rife with power."

"Power?" Cyrus's eyes lost some of their daze, focusing. "I have power…Sarkan said so…" His eyes widened and he let out a horrified gasp as he attempted to whip around to face Athanasius. "You-Sarkan-Bindings, oh _gods_-" He caught a glimpse of murderous red eyes before the reaper slammed him bodily into his grandfather's headstone and pinned him there by the simple fact of outweighing him.

Cyrus let out another gasp, one of pain, as he felt the thin wood frame of his kite snap in several places as Athanasius _leaned_ on him, one hand tangling in his hair to force his head down so that he was bent double over his grandfather's grave. The teen thrashed about, trying to escape. "_Damn _you're Sarkan's whelp, through and through!" Athanasius snarled. Then he leered down at Cyrus. "It appears you gained a spine over the years. How very interesting..." He briefly raised Cyrus's head only to slam it forward, slamming it against the unyielding stone not once but twice, teeth bared in a triumphant snarl as Cyrus cried out in pain. "And you don't live in a secluded pocket dimension." He leaned down and _laughed_, very softly in Cyrus's ear. "I will enjoy watching you, _boy._"

Cyrus gave a whimper of pain as Athanasius hauled him back upright and flipped him so that he was face to face with the Reaper. Crimson eyes glinted dark with a murderous joy. "I will _find _you, wherever you go, little protégé," he breathed, staring down at a pain-dazed Cyrus. Something primal and afraid flickered in brown eyes and Athanasius laughed again, sliding long fingers down the side of Cyrus's face, smearing a trail of blood from the gash on Cyrus's forehead. His hand, now blood stained, continued down, along Cyrus's chest and curling around Cyrus's hip, reveling in the teen's weak struggles to try and escape. "I will _find_ you and you will come to know m-"

Athanasius collapsed heavily against the granite headstone as Cyrus abruptly vanished. He grunted before rolling to one side, gasping as he tried to regain his wind. He hissed in pain as he cracked his head on the same headstone mid-roll and sent out a furious wave of power. "Gods forsaken, son of a slithering incubus _Trickster_!" he roared as he traced the whelp's panicked trail through the various planes before it slipped into nothingness, wherever Sarkan had hidden away his little world.

Regaining his breath, Athanasius stood up and smoothed his hair back, grimacing as he felt the warm stickiness of blood along his right temple. He fixed his eyes on the gravestone at his feet. "I will _remember_ your grandson, Yanus Traherne; you can rest assured of that fact." Gathering his own powers, the reaper left the graveyard to return to his own realm, to plan his next move.

* * *

**AN: ...*cough* Backstory: Five years have passed since Kooza and Cyrus is now 16. Three months before this, Cyrus's grandfather died of a heart attack. Cyrus has been...coping. He's supporting himself with a job as a local package handler, working and studying himself into numbness. He doesn't have any friends, just acquaintances from school and work. His school's counselor would love to talk to him but Cyrus doesn't want to. **

**Switching topics, I actually didn't intend for the levels of Foe Yay to be quite so high in this oneshot o.0 But between one friend saying that "Reapers are creepy!", Athanasius's personality and another friend saying "Up the heavy implications of what Athanasius will do to Cyrus!" and you get a very abused, very traumatized Cyrus and high levels of Foe Yay. **


	2. Mastery

Cyrus crumpled to the ground as soon as his terror managed to catapult him past the boundaries of Kooza. He heard what sounded like the music for Azar's trapeze falter before coming to a complete stop. He stayed sprawled on his stomach, shivering violently as his body abruptly came off its adrenaline high. He could feel Sarkan's power and how it permeated everything in Kooza and relaxed even further. His head throbbed in pain; from where Athanasius had smashed it…He could feel more than a trickle of blood run down his forehead, could feel the blood Athanasius had smeared already drying.

"Bo- Cyrus?" Cyrus closed his eyes with a sigh as he recognized Azar's voice bark down at him from overhead. It had been her music then, when he had entered…

He let himself remain limp for a moment longer before slowly starting to gather his scattered limbs back to himself with a groan. As he moved, he slowly became more aware of his surroundings. He caught a flash of white as one of the Charivari disappeared into the bataclan. Azar was sliding off her trapeze while the clowns watched, uncharacteristically silent. Cyrus blinked, surprised to see Azar now standing before him. "'Lo Azar," he mumbled. "Sorry to drop in…Wrecked your practice…" He looked up to see her lips thin in a humorless smirk as she crouched next to him.

"Yes, quite rude of you," she replied, but there was no censure in her voice. She studied him, wincing at his visible shaking and the blood sliding down his face, from the middle of his forehead to one temple, covering the strange markings that now surrounded his eyes as well as an older trail of blood that looked like it had been deliberately smeared... Azar looked at them and shuddered, not sure of what they meant for their bearer. One thing she _was _certain of: Sarkan would be furious that someone had hurt _his boy_.

She caught a flash of stripes, sighing in relief and trepidation as Sarkan strode out of the bataclan, Ilkin and Cita trailing him. He knelt next to Cyrus quickly; soft curses hissing out through clenched teeth as the boy clumsily lunged and latched onto the Trickster, his shaking becoming even more pronounced. Sarkan caught and held him securely, glancing at Ilkin. The Charivari leader nodded and started shooing everyone back inside the bataclan until it was just Azar, Sarkan and Cyrus in the bataclan clearing.

Azar watched as Cyrus gradually stopped shivering, though he remained curled up, head buried in the Trickster's chest. Sarkan trailed soothing fingers along the shattered remnants of the boy's beloved kite, trying to relax the tension knotted muscles underneath it, humming something under his breath. Cyrus slowly went limp, his breathing deepening to that of sleep. Sarkan shifted, raising an arm to support Cyrus's head as it lolled back, studying the blood staining Cyrus's face with dark eyes. His lip curled up in a brief snarl before he stood with a grunt of effort, settling Cyrus's head back on his shoulder, ignoring the blood soaking into his suit, making the fabric stiff and tacky as he started towards the bataclan. Azar walked in front of him, holding the curtained entrance to the bataclan and making sure that everyone was out of Sarkan's way.

Sarkan took his time, taking Cyrus to his private rooms. Azar was already there, sketching the necessary runes to enter and let Sarkan edge past her and in, moving towards his bedroom. He laid Cyrus out on the oversized bed, carefully untangling the boy from his kite and handing the broken item to Azar with great care. "Put it over by my chest…We might be able to fix it later," he murmured as he got Cyrus underneath the bed's covers, settling the slumbering teen comfortably. Azar did so, wincing as the broken frame warped the delicate sail despite her attempts to lay the kite down flat.

Azar watched Sarkan as he summoned a cloth and bowl of warm water, gently cleaning the blood off of Cyrus's face, washing the nasty looking gash on the sleeping boy's forehead, pressing a summoned bandage down before it could start to bleed again. Finally he stepped back and folded his arms across his chest, his face pensive and dark. She glanced at Cyrus and shivered. She couldn't even summon a flicker of irritation at the boy. Well, unless he planned to stay in Kooza permanently. But right now, it seemed like his arrival was not the most planned of events…Sarkan sighed before making another small gesture. Abruptly, there was a wooden chair beside the bed, angled towards the door. Azar shook her head as Sarkan seated himself in the chair. "What do you want me to tell the others?" she asked in a soft voice.

Sarkan looked up at her and sighed, long fingers rubbing his forehead. "The truth. Cyrus is back in Kooza for the moment but it doesn't appear to be for pleasure." He frowned, reaching out a hand to smooth back Cyrus's hair with light fingers. "Something _scared _him Azar. Enough that he brought himself here." Azar nodded and left the room. Sarkan leaned back into his seat, settling in for a long wait.

Cyrus woke with a convulsive gasp, eyes flying open as he jolted out of whatever he'd been dreaming about. He was confused for all of a moment as he took in the strange-familiar surroundings before movement to his right caught his eye. Sarkan smiled at Cyrus as he stood. "And the sleeper awakens at last." Cyrus remained still as his mind caught up to his body, remembering the events that a brought him to Kooza once more, watching Sarkan watch him. "How do you feel?" Sarkan asked after a moment.

Cyrus blinked at the unexpected question and belatedly took the time to take stock of himself as he sat up. "…Tired. Sore. My head hurts…" he trailed off. "I want a shower," he whispered, hands clenching the blankets covering his lap. He glanced up at Sarkan. "I mean, if I'm staying..."

Sarkan hummed thoughtfully. Cyrus was certainly the type to bottle up his problems until he cracked. The boy was staying, there was no doubt about that. If Sarkan happened to be nearby when Cyrus's walls finally shattered, it was all for the better. "I do not think you would abuse my gift needlessly," he said. "A bath would help your aches more. Afterwards…We can see how long your stay in Kooza will be." Cyrus flushed at Sarkan's statement, nodding his agreement. He stood, wincing as his muscles protested his movement, a hand rising to cradle his still aching skull, fingers brushing over the bandage Sarkan had applied. "My bathroom is through that door," Sarkan indicated the left of two doors set along the left wall. He smirked. "I think you have enough control to create or summon some new clothes, yes?" Cyrus looked surprised but nodded. "Then I will check on you later. If you're done before I do, I'll either be in the common room or the other room in here."

Cyrus smiled wryly as he moved towards the bathroom. "Does that even _have_ a proper name? It's like your private study, a living room and occasional great hall replica all in one."

White eyes darkened at the words "great hall" but he only raised an eyebrow. "Go bathe Cyrus."

Cyrus grinned at Sarkan's evasion and opened the bathroom door. His jaw dropped as he took in the smooth, creamy colored marbled floors and walls. "Nngherk," he not-quite whimpered at sight of the huge sunken pool that was masquerading as a bathtub. He heard Sarkan chuckle as the bedroom door shut and shook his head as he slowly walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

He squatted by the…bathtub, somewhat relieved to see regular temperature controls. Cyrus curiously turned the hot water one to the right and was rewarded with a steady river of steaming water splashing into the tub. Fiddling with the temperature, Cyrus made the water a little hotter than he preferred. Glancing around, he spotted a well stocked supply of soap and towels. Grabbing one of the towels, a washcloth, and a bar of soap that smelled faintly of cinnamon and pomegranates, Cyrus placed everything near the rapid-filling bathtub before stripping off his clothing. Cyrus winced as he brushed light fingers over the bruises starting to appear on his stomach, from where Athanasius had leaned on him, shoving him against his _grandfather's_ headstone. Cyrus groaned, feeling his stomach contract unpleasantly.

He studied his modern clothes, so out of place here in Kooza, shivering at the dried blood crusted on them. He briefly entertained the thought of recreating the outfit he'd worn when he was eleven but discarded it with a shake of his head. Maybe just some token stripes on whatever he decided to wear once he was clean…Cyrus shook his head and slid carefully in the hot water, hissing at the temperature, eyes sliding shut. He stayed still, letting his body get used to the water before taking a deep breath and sinking underneath the water. He flinched as the hot water found the gash on his forehead, rising out of the water with some alacrity and pushing his hair back from his face. He gingerly prodded about his forehead, peeling off the now-soaked bandage, wincing as his fingers found the cut. It felt large…Cyrus opened his eyes and peered down at the rippling water to try and determine exactly how badly Athanasius had hurt him.

He froze.

Trails of color curled around his eyes, similar to Sarkan's but different in design and color. Sarkan's markings were vibrant, splashes of oranges and reds, arcing into graceful spikes and flares that bled into black and blues. Cyrus's were of a gentler coloring, all in blues and whites, designs swirling into spirals and soft ribbons that trailed back along his temples before fading away into his hair. Above these new markings, a long gash ran halfway across his forehead to his left temple, red and raw.

Cyrus stared down at the water, feeling his heart try to clench into a solid knot, his lungs freezing even as his mind wanted him to scream. He closed his eyes, slumping back against marble and drawing in a shaky breath. "'S not fair," he whispered, throat tight. But as he had learned from the past few months, life wasn't fair. Cyrus took a deliberately deep breath, forcing air down into his lungs, past shaking muscles. Focus on the little details in living, don't think about anything else. He felt something thicker than water slide down his forehead and grimaced before reaching for slick strands of power and touching them for just a moment, enough to convince the cut to seal itself shut. He opened his eyes with a shuddering sigh and reached for the soap and washcloth.

He scrubbed all over once before going back and paying special attention to the areas where Athanasius had touched him, gritting his teeth as he rubbed at bruised skin and tender scalp and face, shaking shoulders. He only stopped when it felt like his skin was going to peel away. He put the soap- shrunken to half of its original size- off to one side and sank into the hot water, ignoring the sting of skin scraped half raw. He let himself tread water, staring down at his reflection and frowning. He brushed slightly wrinkled fingertips over the markings, not feeling a difference in the way the skin felt. He glanced at his hands and sighed softly. His body was telling him to get out of the bath, but he was still enjoying the hot water. He sighed and pillowed his head on arms folded on the cold floor, now slick from the steam that had curled up earlier. He sighed again before stilling. He raised himself so that he was supporting himself on his elbows. He cupped his hands before him taking a deep breath and reaching for the strands of his gift again, soundlessly telling it what he wanted.

Power flared and Cyrus looked down to see a small mirror cradled in his hands. He smiled before sliding back into the water. He rested his chin on one arm, using one hand to steady the mirror as he studied the patterns around his eyes. That was how Sarkan found him, when he came to check on him as promised.

"They show that you've mastered your gift." Cyrus jolted in surprise, turning to see Sarkan leaning against the bathroom door, watching him.

"Really? I thought I had back when…" Cyrus's voice trailed off as Sarkan's look of cynicism as the Trickster walked forward, coming to kneel next to the bathtub, ignoring the water staining his slacks.

"You had _control_, which what I sought to instill in you." Harsh words, but Sarkan's voice was gentle as he studied the patterns. "They fit," he said simply.

"Thanks…?" Cyrus was still uncertain of how he felt about his altered appearance. Sarkan's lips twitched but he just handed Cyrus his towel. Cyrus sighed but pulled himself out of the hot water, hurriedly toweling himself off before wrapping the towel around his waist. "Oh yeah, clothes," he muttered, a little embarrassed.

He glanced up, expecting to see Sarkan smirking at his forgetfulness and froze. Sarkan's eyes were narrowed and fixed on his torso. Cyrus looked down and flushed, a hand rising to cover the bruises forming a too-neat line just above his hips. Sarkan reached out a long arm and stopped the hand, stepping closer. The trickster studied the bruises (and the too-visible ribs above them) for a long moment before stepping back. "I'll be in the other room," he said and left, closing the door behind him.

Cyrus shivered again, this time from the chill of standing on marble and closed his eyes, cupping his hands before him as he thought about what clothes he could make.

Sarkan looked up from a book as Cyrus stepped out of his bedroom wearing- For a brief moment, Sarkan's heart clenched as he saw the loose fitting trews and simple tunic style of the long sleeve shirt Cyrus had crafted. The ache faded as he saw the familiar horizontal pattern of stripes Cyrus had incorporated in the trim of the off white tunic and dark blue trews. His lips twitched into a smile as Cyrus padded over to stand before him, nervous fingers stroking the strange fabric of his sleeves. "Sit Cyrus," he invited and winced inside as Cyrus sat, curling into a tight ball, wedged into the corner of couch opposite from where Sarkan sat. He had a feeling that there would be many nights spent on the uppermost balcony, offering silent comfort and mugs of questionable content. "What do you need that Kooza has to offer?" he finally asked.

Cyrus looked shocked. He had been expecting a different line of conversation. His grandfather had always interrogated him if he had been hurting, wanting to know exactly who or what was to blame…Cyrus's hand moved to stroke his kite's strap only to wince and stop as he remembered what had happened to it when Athanasius had leaned on him. "What I need?" he repeated. The words were too similar to Athanasius's insidious offer. "I- Sarkan- I need someplace _safe _and _time _and-" Cyrus stopped, not quite crying but very close to it.

Sarkan regarded him soberly for a moment before nodding. "And you shall have it," he replied. "Kooza is _always_ open to you as sanctuary."

* * *

**AN: Gods damned formatting...FFnet will not let me put in any kind of _subtle _visual clue that time has passed. Cyrus sleeps like the dead for a few hours before waking and Sarkan waits five minutes as Cyrus gets dressed.**

**Cyrus's markings: Like Sarkan said, they show that Cyrus has mastered his gift. What Sarkan couldn't say was that they also show that Cyrus is a descendent of Sarkan's. I thought about giving Cyrus gold along his fingers as well but couldn't figure out which fingers I would put it on. Ah well. Poor, sixteen year old Cyrus will have a tough enough time figuring how to hide his markings as is.  
**

**Regarding Cyrus's weight/ribs: Ok, Cyrus isn't in the best mental state. Hasn't been for a while. His grief sucks away his appetite and no one has been able to get close enough to make sure that he's eating properly. He's only a few pounds underweight but it's starting to show a little in the ribs and in the fact that Sarkan should not have been able to carry him up three flights of stairs easily. Sarkan is the type to notice this. A few words to Ilkin and Cyrus is going to be stuffed with food at every meal.  
**

**Switching to a lighter topic...To give you a sense of size for Sarkan's bathtub/pool, think of a decent sized hot tub. Double the length and width and depth and you have something approaching what Sarkan has. He doesn't indulge himself often but when he does, he really does xD There is a shower tucked away in a back corner but Sarkan doesn't use it very often. He likes to soak. Preferably with Azar xD And no, Sarkan doesn't not naturally exude the scent of cinnamon and pomegranates I've mentioned once or twice. It's in his soap.  
**


	3. Nightmare

Sarkan flickered into the shadows of the uppermost balcony. Cyrus was standing there, shivering in the cooler nighttime air of Kooza, an oily black nightmare twining thick ropey tendrils around his neck and wrists. Sarkan watched as Cyrus's shoulders drooped and stepped forward as Cyrus propped his elbows on the balcony railing and let his head sag, shoulder blades visible at a sharp angle. Sarkan stepped forward to stand by him, threading fingers through sweat slicked hair, careful to avoid the strands of nightmare that drifted up towards his hand. "…This is the third night Cyrus."

Cyrus leaned into Sarkan's hand, something akin to a whine bubbling up from his throat. "I can't get away from him Sarkan…" Sarkan remained silent: Cyrus need to do this on his own. "He's _there _and I can't escape and there's Grandfather's gravestone and he says he'll bring him back and I believe him, _I believed him_, but he bound you and I remembered and he got angry and it _hurt_, kite snapping, head bashing..." Cyrus's hysterical whispers trailed off and he gave a convulsive shudder. "I should have _known. _Athanasius _always wants something."_

Sarkan had had his private suspicions, formed from stray comments and actions he had seen in Cyrus over the past few days. The boy had frozen when he'd touched his shoulders, had thrown Cita off of himself in a violent panic when she had pounced on him in a hug, bending him forward. The boy had apologized profusely for his actions immediately after but still…To know that Athanasius was the one who had frightened Cyrus, again, and to such an extent…Sarkan let his eyes slide shut and he sighed. "Athanasius has demonstrated a…love of hurting me." His voice was soft and edged. "I suspect he engineered Azar's fall through one of his skeletons. He knows that to harm you would be to harm me."

Cyrus's head twitched in Sarkan's direction, sleepy brown eyes sharpened with disbelief. The nightmare, which had been fading away as Cyrus had talked and then listened flared up with a new color, a new fear. "But I'm nothing-!" He stopped mid-sentence as Sarkan's sudden glare that softened as Cyrus shrank back.

"You are…" Sarkan paused, feeling the runes twisted around his neck flare with warmth. "Many things Cyrus. "Nothing" is _not_ one of them." Cyrus flushed, but didn't avert his eyes, watching Sarkan. Sarkan met his gaze, pleased to see the nightmare fade once more.

Finally Cyrus looked away, back out over Kooza and Sarkan took the opportunity to twist his fingers in a familiar gesture, summoning an elegant goblet of mead, spiced and steaming. Cyrus gave the goblet a sidelong glance and his lips twitched. "I nearly had a heart attack when I figured out what you had been giving me to help me sleep," he muttered. "And if Grandfather had ever found out…" Flash of grief, quickly subsumed. "He would've hunted you down, demigod or not." Still, a hand snaked forward to grasp the offered drink.

Sarkan smirked. Even if Yanus hadn't known the extent of his benign manipulations, the old man had still tried to shred him verbally when Sarkan had approached him. "And yet you take the so-called poison from my hand," he observed with a dry tone.

Cyrus gave him a mocking salute before sipping at the brew and sighing. "I missed it." He took a second sip, trying to memorize the taste. "I tried everything Grandfather had locked away in the liquor cabinet but nothing even came close."

Sarkan glanced at Cyrus, smirking. "Tsk, tsk," he admonished. "Underage drinking?" He shook his head in disappointment.

"You started it," Cyrus replied before giving a rueful chuckle. "You started a lot of things."

Sarkan tilted his head to one side, intrigued. "Oh?"

"Mm." Cyrus swung his goblet in slow circles, watching its contents swirl. "I'm now the go-to person for information about Norse mythology. I know how to patch people up pretty well. Accidents have a nasty habit of being averted when I'm nearby."

Sarkan raised an eyebrow as Cyrus took another sip of mead. "Interesting," he murmured. "And no one's…noticed?"

Cyrus shook his head. "Unless people are looking for me, I blend in." He scowled for a moment. "I used to think it was bad thing."

"What changed your mind?" Sarkan asked.

Cyrus grimaced, drinking more mead. "Grandfather's death. People were looking at me and I didn't want them to but I couldn't escape." Sarkan watched Cyrus sigh, his stance relaxing as the alcohol started to affect him. "I don't know what he was thinking, making me an emancipated minor…Once the media got a hold of that tidbit; I was their new, temporary, darling. Thankfully some celebrity keeled over and they swarmed to a new story."

Sarkan chuckled. "The spotlight not to your liking?" Cyrus snarled something uncomplimentary under his breath that made Sarkan smile. It was refreshing to see Cyrus _react_ instead of trying to bottle his emotions. Sarkan took a deep breath, noticing the slowly brightening lights of the bataclan. "The others will be up soon."

"I know," Cyrus replied in a low voice.

"Others are up _now_," a familiar voice grumbled. Both Sarkan and Cyrus turned, surprised to Azar leaning on the entrance to the stairwell, glaring at them sleepily. Cyrus flushed as he recognized Sarkan's robe- and underneath it, his sleeping clothes.

Judging from the long suffering sigh to his left, Sarkan did too. Azar smirked at her lover as she walked over to him. "You've yet to tell me to stop," she said.

Sarkan hummed, leaning down to brush a gentle kiss along her jaw before turning to Cyrus, who had taken a sudden interest in the design of the goblet he held. "You will sleep now?" he asked in a soft voice.

Cyrus nodded before yawning, looking surprised. "You laced it with something," he accused Sarkan halfheartedly.

Sarkan smirked. "Trickster," he reminded the boy.

"Mmph," Cyrus replied. "I'd better find my room before I'm out completely then," he mumbled, turning to wander back inside the bataclan. Whatever Sarkan had placed in the alcohol was affecting him, enough that he didn't notice Sarkan reach out a hand and pull the goblet away from his loose fingers. "See you both later," he yawned. Sleep did sound rather attractive all of a sudden and he didn't think that his dreams would be haunted by a grinning Reaper now…

* * *

**AN: Oh, Sarkan...You and your giving Cyrus alcohol. But there's some backstory for Cyrus that isn't given in the author's note xD **


	4. Stars

Sarkan woke silently, shivering as he felt a deep chill settle along his bones. He sat up, disentangling himself from Azar's sleepy clutches. Azar shifted, a faint frown creasing her forehead and Sarkan sighed when her eyes opened. "Wha' happened?" she mumbled, fighting back the urge to close her eyes and go back to sleep. Sarkan reached out and brushed a thumb over the gold markings along her cheek, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as Azar gave a content sigh. "What happened, Sarkan?" she asked again, sitting up. Clearly, she was up for the moment.

"…I'm not sure," Sarkan replied with a frown. "But someone's altered Kooza." And there was only one person aside from Sarkan within Kooza capable of that at the moment. "I want to make sure it's nothing permanent." He stood, shivering from the loss of heat. He looked around for one of his sleeping shirts and frowned when he couldn't find one. He glanced back at Azar and sighed when she merely blinked at him, doing her best to radiate innocence, despite the fact that she was _wearing _one of the missing shirts. "Thief," he murmured, pulling on his robe.

"Mm," Azar agreed as she slid out of the bed. She wandered over to his dresser and stole a pair of sleeping pants, cinching them tight. Sarkan sighed again but started for the door, Azar following. She blinked in surprise as Sarkan reached the stairs and started _down _them. It was a well established fact that when Cyrus was upset, he headed for highest place in Kooza: The King's Balcony. What would make him break from his usual habit? Azar frowned as she followed Sarkan down and out, stopping just outside the bataclan's entrance.

"Impressive," Sarkan murmured as he looked at the remade clearing before him. The clearing floor was covered in spread of thick grass. The faint burble of a stream could be heard though Sarkan couldn't see it.

"Sarkan…" Azar whispered, shivering beside him. He glanced down at her and was unsurprised to see her looking up. He raised his eyes and felt a flicker of surprise as he saw the rich canopy of stars spread across the nighttime sky. His lips twitched as he spotted familiar constellations, their stars shining just a touch brighter than the rest. "Sarkan…" Azar kept her voice low but there was an edge of tension present, echoed in her muscles. "I can't feel my trapeze…" She slid in front of him, her shoulders nudging his arms aside, silently seeking comfort.

He brushed his hands down her arms, caressing the markings along her fingers before leaning down to press a soft kiss on the side of her neck. "Peace Azar," he murmured, tracing the edge of her jaw with his nose. "Cyrus will restore everything to how it should be before morning."

"He'd better," she muttered, a snarl not-quite audible.

Sarkan chuckled and stood straighter, looking for the perpetrator of the unexpected changes within Kooza. There is a rustle in the grass, a flash of movement. Sarkan frowned as Iman wandered up to him, tongue lolling. He pulled away from Azar to kneel before the large hound. "Where is Cyrus?" he asked, fingers tangling in long fur as he scratched the dog's chest. Iman heaved a doggy sigh, eyes closing for a brief moment before whining as he turned and trotted away. Sarkan and Azar followed, ignoring the tickle of grass on their bare feet as Iman lead them to the outer edge of the clearing, down a slight incline and over by the stream Sarkan had heard earlier. Iman flopped down by Cyrus, who was sprawled in the grass, staring blankly up at the stars he had brought to Kooza. Sarkan let out a soft sigh and knelt next to the boy. "Cyrus?" His voice was surprisingly gentle and Azar abruptly noticed the glistening tear tracks on Cyrus's cheeks and the thick goblet clasped in one hand.

Cyrus blinked, shifting a little to glance at Sarkan before letting a small whine bubble up from his throat. Sarkan tilted the goblet towards him, checking the contents and sighed again. "How much have you had to drink?"

"…'Bout three cups," Cyrus answered after a moment. "Thought it would help but it doesn't, just makes things hurt more. He's gone and it _hurts _and I can't do _anything _but sit here." Sarkan brushed Cyrus's hair back from his forehead, deftly avoiding the raw gash that was still healing. Cyrus leaned into the touch and Sarkan pulled the goblet away from unresisting fingers, making it vanish in a quick flex of power. Cyrus let his eyes close, fresh tears trickling down his face as he gave a shuddering sigh. "Grandfather loved the stars," he said, his tone almost wistful.

Azar shifted, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She didn't know anything about what Cyrus was muttering. However, Sarkan seemed set on sitting with the boy so she sat down next to Sarkan. Sarkan glanced at her and something of her discomfort must've shown as he turned to Cyrus. "Care to share some of his knowledge with us?" he asked lightly.

Cyrus looked surprised and his face started to crumple but he took a deep breath and nodded. "Well, there's Polaris and I always found him by the Big Dipper…" Cyrus raised his hand, pointing to the stars he was talking about. Azar felt a flash of irritation- how did he expect her to pick out the stars he was talking about from the millions above them?- when she saw Sarkan draw in a breath and twisted his fingers in an intricate gesture, wincing slightly as he did so.

She opened her mouth to ask what he'd done to hurt himself when he reached out and touched her arm. "Now look up," he murmured. Azar did so and gasped. The stars and the- constellations?- were outlined with thin silver lines, with elaborate, semitransparent portraits laid over them.

Cyrus stopped talking as he caught sight of Sarkan's additions to the night sky. He looked as surprised as Azar felt. After a moment he blushed, turning his head to look at Azar. "Sorry…I forgot that you wouldn't know what I'm pointing at," he apologized.

Azar stared up at the stars, acknowledging his apology with a faint nod. She spotted two figures, identical twins in robes of white and gold with matching feathery headdresses. "Who are they?" she asked, pointing.

"Castor and Pollux… Together they're called Gemini," Cyrus replied. "I can't remember the story behind them though…"

"They were twin half brothers. Castor was mortal and Pollux was immortal," Sarkan spoke up, making Azar and Cyrus turn to look at him. "When Castor died, Pollux begged his father to let him share his immortality with his brother. The father, moved by Pollux's pleas, made them into the constellation we see in the stars."

Azar nodded and pointed at another constellation. "What's that one?"

Sarkan slid back under his blankets with a groan of relief. Azar waited until he was completely settled before clambering over him, not wanting to walk around to the other side of his monstrous bed. She entertained the notion of sprawling over him for a brief moment but decided that she wanted to be _under_ the covers first if she chose to do so. She curled up next to him with a sigh and closed her eyes. They had just returned from escorting to Cyrus to his bed after the teen had restored the clearing in front of the bataclan to normal and Azar was tired.

A few seconds later, her lips curled up and she laughed softly as she felt Sarkan's hands tracing patterns down her ribs. She felt for his hands and intertwined her fingers with his as he started caressing her hips. "I do want to _sleep _at some point," she murmured.

Sarkan sighed, a hint of regret audible. She felt him shift so that he was on his side, facing her. "I merely wished to express my appreciation for the compassion you showed Cyrus tonight." His breath was warm as it brushed over her throat, making her shiver.

Azar opened her eyes enough to see him watching her. "Even I wouldn't harm him when he's so …" Azar's voice trailed off as she searched for the right word. "Damaged," she finished. Sarkan smiled sadly and leaned forward to kiss her on the lips. Azar stilled, surprised, before kissing back. It was short, chaste kiss for the pair but it fit.

After a moment Sarkan pulled back enough to touch his forehead to hers. "Perceptive," he whispered.

Azar huffed. "Even the clowns would've been able to see it tonight." Before Sarkan could speak, Azar yawned. "We can talk in the morning," she mumbled as the combination of warmth from Sarkan and the blankets pulled her back towards sleep. Sarkan hummed his agreement and settled beside her, draping an arm over her waist.

They slept.

* * *

**AN: (Gods damned formatting.) This is the last drabble I have currently written for this little story arc, so no double update *hangs head* This set doesn't feel finished, so when I get more relevant plot bunnies, I will write them out and post them. ****Bad author, no cookie.**** Still, for the moment, the story will be labeled Complete.I don't know what I'll post next since none of the other mini-story arcs are finished : They may not be finished for a while since NaNoWriMo starts in 2 days and I will be focused on writing my Kooza novel.  
**

**Three things to share: One, Sarkan and Kooza have been together for so long without any physical changes that anytime something withing Kooza is altered, Sarkan feels it physically. Sarkan can change things in Kooza, but it's not as easy as it once was. When he made the constellation illustrations, it hurt. Not a lot, just some assorted joint aches. Azar would've pounced on it but Sarkan side tracked her. As the author, I decided focusing on Azar's development was more important than Sarkan explaining his wince. **

**Two, Azar's development. Yay, she's grown as a person and while she's still not fond of Cyrus, she can see he's hurting and that her usual approach wouldn't help matters. She won't be as kind as Aysu or Cita, but she will be gentler. Somewhat.  
**

**Three, random tidbits of info. Iman is the name I gave the Dog from the show; it means faithful. In my head, Iman is built as a cross between the tall, leggy lines of an Irish wolfhound with the sheer mass of a Newfoundland. Second tidbit, anyone who has seen the finale of Varekai should recognize the the outfits I described for the Gemini constellation xD I think that's as close as a crossover between two Cirque shows will get as I will ever write (between other fandoms is a different matter...). If Castor and Pollux figure into my novel, they will be their own characters and _not _based off of Varekai's Castor and Pollux. **

**Final thing: This drabble was spawned when one of my friends asked if anyone of the Koozans (Many thanks to ToMordor for the name xD) had seen the stars and how they would feel. Answer: No, they haven't outside of books and they would feel uncomfortable. Azar's discomfort is doubled by the fact that her trapeze was put somewhere when she couldn't feel it. The highwire artists would feel the same.  
**


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